


Just As You Are

by orphan_account



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Fluff, Human AU, M/M, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-08
Updated: 2015-09-08
Packaged: 2018-04-19 17:02:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4754156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The December evening on which you plan to confess to him will be bitterly cold and snowy. He will be waiting in the spot you told him to wait, underdressed as usual in too-thin cargo pants, one of his hands jammed into the pocket of his anorak and the other clutching a chili dog. You will be struck, at first, by the comical unromanticness of it, his eating a chili dog. You will then have an urge to wipe away the spot of sour cream that has lodged itself to his lower lip, tenderly, with your thumb. Being you, you will ignore this urge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just As You Are

Dear past self,

Well, I suppose I owe you an explanation first. I am, you see, you from the future. Not too far into the future; I, unlike Doraemon, do not possess any gadgets to comically improve your life. Actually, I don’t even have a time machine, so I’m not sure how this message is being conveyed at all. But this is all just a theoretical exercise, so don’t worry too much about it.  
(In the days leading up to the wedding, my mind has become as occupied with thoughts as a subway car is with people at rush hour, most of which concern how things are going to turn out in the future. Yao suggested this letter to show myself how far I have come, and that things will work out fine. Now, you and I both know that our stepbrother’s sagely advice is usually pulled directly out of the Dear Alice column he reads every Sunday, but I decided to humor him. It seemed to me especially appropriate for me, the constant worrier, the man who always seeks the path of least embarrassment, to have a convenient roadmap for the future. I would have loved that.)

Anyway. Anyway.

The gist of this letter is that you are going to fall in love with a ridiculous man. He has a silly first name, and you will stifle a laugh upon first hearing it. He is very large and very blonde, and has almost no concept of personal boundaries. Many of your friends hate him. The two of you will meet through your job at the Embassy, and at first you will find it very hard to see him as anything more than a temporary annoyance.

You, therefore, probably do not believe me.  
(I have spotted another flaw in this exercise’s logic; the point in time in which you, past self, exist, is unclear. You may have met him already, and if so I fear you know exactly whom I’m talking about. Then again, several of your friends fit this description.)

(One stands out, however.)

The December evening on which you plan to confess to him will be bitterly cold and snowy. He will be waiting in the spot you told him to wait, underdressed as usual in too-thin cargo pants, one of his hands jammed into the pocket of his anorak and the other clutching a chili dog. You will be struck, at first, by the comical unromanticness of it, his eating a chili dog. You will then have an urge to wipe away the spot of sour cream that has lodged itself to his lower lip, tenderly, with your thumb. Being you, you will ignore this urge.

The confession itself will be painfully awkward for you, but he will seem blissfully oblivious of the situation until you say the words. A look of awareness will spread across his face, along with a blush. 

“Oh, fuck,” he will murmur, uncharacteristically soft-spoken, and you will brace yourself for the worst. “I guess…I guess…me too?”

He will then begin talking very quickly for the remainder of the walk to your flat, about how he now knows that he liked you all along too, yet he isn’t really sure how to go about this, that honestly he has trouble figuring out where the line between platonic and romantic affection lies, that he doesn’t have much experience with relationships. 

But he’ll try. He’ll try because, he will bluster, heroes never back down. Also he l-l-l-likes you. A lot. Did he mention that already?

He will insist on stopping at the video store on the corner and renting a stack of romantic comedies.

(Footnote: his glasses will steam up as he leaves the warm shop and steps out into the snow, and you will be extremely endeared by this, not stopping to remember that this is a scientific phenomenon that happens to all glasses-wearers, and does not, in fact, apply solely to him.)

This all will reassure you because it seems like a very him thing to do, just another one of his odd escapades. The two of you will stay up until three AM watching the movies one by one, jammed onto your tiny living room couch and feeling, at first, more awkward around each other than ever before. As the evening continues, however, the hot cocoa and popcorn and cheesy movies will begin to make it feel like the confession never happened, and his long legs and your own (less than long) ones will become intertwined on the ottoman. At one point you will comment in passing that Bridget Jones reminds you very much of him, and he will make that mock-offended face he makes when he is being playfully insulted, his eyes squinting and his mouth a wide O. You will laugh at the time, but later come to regret the joke when he shows up to one of Yao’s parties in a too-small rented playboy bunny suit and fishnets.

But I digress.

Christmas in your country is a time for lovers, and that is what the two of you will become in the weeks after your confession. He will stay over at your flat for days on end, claiming that it’s too cold to make the trek back to his place. It will indeed be one of the harshest winters yet on record, and the Embassy will close a number of times due to the weather conditions. In these long days trapped in the apartment, the two of you will methodically break down the barriers you have painstakingly erected around yourself for your whole life. This may sound disastrous to you now, but it will, when it comes, feel less like an invasion and more like being rescued. 

Your mutual friends will fail to notice your transition from friends to lovers for a long time, because he has always been over affectionate with you in particular, and you will continue to be your usual brand of stonily reserved in public. In short, not much changes. Which is a good thing. You have never been much for changes.  
It seems I’ve gotten a bit off course. This letter does have a point, and that point is to give you several pieces of advice:  
1\. You will, as an effect of your relationship with him, cultivate a talent, long suppressed, for snarky remarks. This will not win you any favors, but don’t try to fight it. It’s who you really are.

2\. Speaking of which, give up on your crusade of “networking”; i.e. making arranged playdates with people you don’t really care about, in pursuit of influence. Contacts. All it does is stress you out. You’re an introvert, and it’s about time you stop fighting that. True friends will come to you. 

3\. Thankfully, neither you nor him becomes truly angry often, so you don’t have many fights. When you do, though, it smarts keenly. Most of them start because of your perceived superiority to him. Don’t think he doesn’t pick up on that, don’t make that mistake. A fight will happen like so: You’ll start it, he’ll retaliate with more force, one of you will storm out and both of you will feel like shit until you apologize. You do it formally, with a card (picked up with shaking fingers from the local convenience store) or flowers. He, on the other hand, will never really say the words, but will crawl into your bed one night and hug you tightly, and offer to cook for days after.

4\. He does, as you will comment once, eat his feelings (see snarky remarks, above). He’s pretty terrible at most video games. He is eager to learn your language but unwilling to practice it, and likewise constantly excited about scientific discoveries but totally ignorant of what they mean. Don’t be too hard on him for any of these things. He has good traits too; his odd serious sobriety when drunk, his way of trying hard at everything he does, his childish excitement at spring.

5\. Just because you are the older one (much older, as you think in your darker hours in front of the mirror) does not mean you are any less susceptible to advertising. Both you and he have poor impulse control skills when it comes to small, cute, things. Or anything, for that matter. Money will be tight.

6\. I know you, Kiku, because I am you. You’re insecure and neurotic. You are always full to bursting with emotions but loathe to express them. Your writing reads like an instruction manual. 

(I am interrupted at this point by him, your future fiancé, in his tuxedo, knocking on the door to your room and asking if you know how to tie a bow tie. And can you tell that his tux is slightly too small around the waist? Oh, And do you think it’s bad luck that you two are seeing each other before the ceremony, or does that only apply to girls? And I give him a peck on the cheek and tell him he looks fine, and we’re going to be fine.

And he loves you, Kiku. He loves you so much. In the words of Bridget Jones’s Diary, just as you are.

It’s dusk. Outside, in the park, the crowd is filing down the aisles and into their seats. Yao and Arthur are in the refreshments tent, downing champagne like water and wiping sweat from their brows. One would think it was them getting married, and not you. As the evening wears on, they are both going to get completely smashed, and begin making multiple wedding speeches, trying to outdo each other. Ivan, whom neither of you invited, will get up and sing an absolutely terrifying rendition of Elton John’s “Don’t Go Breaking My Heart”. Feliciano will lose a drunken game of strip poker and get thrown out of the park for public nudity by a passing police officer. Amidst it all, your new husband and you will already be in honeymoon mode, him kissing the rim of your collar, your hand resting chastely on the small of his back.

They’re all waiting for you, Kiku, from years in the future. It’s your fairy tale ending. And as a wedding gift, I have one last piece of advice.

Stop worrying.

Things turn out just fine.

**Author's Note:**

> i haven't read/watched/written/thought about these characters in years, and suddenly, while shoe shopping, i was inspired. for better or for worse.   
> p.s.: anyone who writes me alfred jones's diary will get highest honors.


End file.
